* no one talk to me about how late these are ! not a single person talk to me about how DISGUSTINGLY late these intros are !
soraya aleah nakhjavani . twenty - five . spy / kitchenhand .
soraya's beginnings are gentle , easy , remarkably kind . born to suli musicians , she is no stranger to performance . even at a young age , they call her the nightingale : voice like honey , dripping sweet and strangely haunting . when she's old enough , she will join her mother and father on stage at fêtes . until then , she is the spitting image of her mother with her father's quick wit and sharp tongue .
oldest of three ; her brother is five years younger than her , and her sister was ten years younger . both are deceased now , and she aches for them every day . she remembers their gap - toothed grins , their sticky hands , their beautiful laughter ; she longs for nothing more than to reverse time , to have her family back together .
once upon a time , she was a happy child , worlds away from the vengeful creatures she's destined to become / something unbridled in the joy she felt , surrounded by love at every turn . she still remembers the calmness of her mother's touch , the way her father hummed lullabies and hymns alike when he cooks dinner . theirs is an unobtrusive existence , and she loves it .
faith was interwoven throughout her childhood , a solace when she needed it . prayers murmured to her favourite saints ( always elisaveta and alina , something holy about powerful women ) , and in a different world she would still hold faith close to her chest . she pinpoints the exact moment that it all falls apart .
soraya doesn't care to remember why she wasn't with her family when it happened . all she knows is that one moment , her family unit is close - knit and then it is blown apart . they're in the wrong place at the wrong time , and the darkling's mercy doesn't extend to suli musicians . her mother , her father , her brother and her sister are all gone . ( in ketterdam , they have a saying . no mourners , no funerals . oh , how she wishes she could skip the funerals , erase the devastation that sits at her core , rotting every single part of her . soraya is sixteen , and her family is dead , and there is nothing good left in this world . )
something festers in the space that love used to occupy / bruised at the centre , rotting from the inside out and leaving only decay in its place . she doesn't understand it for a while , won't hope to understand the feeling that thrums through her veins and leaves her breathless in the dead of night --- - but it's rage .
she leaves for ketterdam shortly after the last funeral in a conscious effort to start something new for herself , find some way of peddling what little marketable talents she has . ( besides that haunting voice , she's a talented dancer with quiet feet and a talent for making violent twists of limbs look beautiful . ) she ends up in the barrel , alone and shivering in the cold , wishing desperately that she had been in the caravan that day with her family / wiped out , but at least she'd be with them .
what else is there to do , but join the first army ? in truth , it's a means to an end . soraya knows that feeling in her bone marrow now , and it's rage . she'll use the first army to hone her skills , create something out of that undying anger that burns right through her . she's got a gift for fighting , this much is true / an ability to camoflauge herself in plain sight , shakespeare's rose and the serpent under't . she's a soldier for six months before the first army approach her with the beginnings of an idea , of something more . the thing is , the fjerdans got there first .
she's not really sure how fjerda caught wind of her skills , but they do and they make her an offer she cannot refuse --- - the first army makes a similar offer . spy on the second army , see what you can gather for us .
neither the first army nor the fjerdans realise that they're being thoroughly duped . soraya's loyalties lie with neither --- - they lie with the dagger strapped to her right thigh . she's taken up their jobs to accomplish the one thing that's consumed her waking days --- - to end the darkling the way he ended her family . she'll kill him or die trying , and either is a noble way to go .
matteo thiago reyes . forty . palace guard .
when matteo thinks of his childhood , he thinks with his senses .
taste . ( of freshly - baked bread , warm and wafting in the crisp morning air as it mingles with the morning dew . tea , piping hot and soothing . )
sound . ( the sleepy whine of his pup as he extracts himself from the mess of sheets . the rooster's cheery , if painfully early , greeting crow when he and his brothers scatter feed across the farm . )
sight . ( the sun rising over the hills , painting everything golden / flemish painting kind of beautiful , he has it tattooed on the backs of his eyelids . the breakfast table with its uneven , handmade legs , welcoming in red and white gingham . love , love , love as far as he could see . )
touch . ( roughened palms stroking a favoured cow's muzzle , the way a milk bottle sweats in that very same hand . textures , the dampness of the grass , the sensation of being led out to the pastures by an adoring mother . )
smell . ( the farm , in all its earthy loveliness . )
the reyes family farm is one carried by pride and joy , an expanse of land in novyi zem that's been passed down from eldest child to eldest child for as long as family history is known . the third son , matteo has always known that the farm will never be his but that's never stopped him loving it with his entire heart . to this day , he still travels home at least four times a year to spend time with his elder brothers and their families , to tend to the farm that features so heavily in his childhood .
he's eighteen when he leaves home for the first army . ( his mother begs him not to go , cajoles and pleads , tells him that nothing is worth dying for but he's not entirely sure she's right . his mother's ravkan blood still runs strong through his veins , and honour is a calling he cannot deny . )
perhaps he should've listened . he leaves at eighteen , only to be honourably discharged at twenty - five after a wound to the shoulder that will forever leave him aching at the end of the day , listing slightly to the right . it's not without its benefits ; the lives he's saved are better than any glimmering set of medals on his chest , and it's those that score him the job that he's taken immeasurable pride in since his first day .
working as a palace guard is reserved for war heroes and lesser noblemen , they say , and yet a zemeni soldier finds himself amongst their ranks and eternally grateful for it . the days are long and sometimes people are less than kind , but he revels in watching grisha work . they call it the small science , but it never fails to leave his eyes pinwheeling .
in truth , there's one particular grisha he watches . he's not sure she notices him , but he keeps his eyes trained on her with a hopeless , lovelorn , impossibly soft smile . ( she watches him too : the guard with unruly curls that gazes at her , the one with stars in his eyes and declarations of adoration looking like they want to burst forth from behind his teeth . )
spoiler alert : they marry a year later .
and this is life : early starts and gentle kisses pressed to a sleeping wife's forehead , rising to the challenge of defending the palace and the people he loves and serves each day . he's found himself quite the role within the guard / not quite a patriarch , but a father figure nonetheless . he looks out for his younger colleagues , invites them to dinner and fills them full of food and advice they didn't ask for but will treasure nonetheless . this is his life , and he adores it with a passion .
